Whispering Thoughts

 Eventually,  the spotlight shines on us. Jingles resonate,  excerpts from life. '' ''  Mayhaps symphonic sonnets...  perchance dissonant dribblings... ...  we decide our echoes.  Linking with Weekend Writing Prompt #259 Welfare unto all  Rab rakha 

As you walk with Guru, you walk in the light of existence, away from the darkness of ignorance, you leave behind all the problems of your life. A haiku inspired from this thought... Heartiest greetings for Gurupurab... Thy name’s holy thread, mends my tattered and frayed soul, in thee, my refuge. Satnam Sri Waheguru Linking with Modest Mondays Welfare unto all  Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

Underneath the silken layers, sans the make-up and the hair-do, without the dash of code red lipstick and perfectly lined eyes, beyond the glowing radiant skin, your soul painted in perfection. So come to me, as you are, minus all these masks. You, with all your scars and flaws, pure, authentic and real, glowing from somewhere deep inside. And I shall love you sweetheart, with all my heart, for how you are made up. Linking with Friday Fictioneers PHOTO PROMPT COURTESY Ronda del Boccio Welfare unto all Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗

Shattered to pieces, love comes shining through the cracks. And our soul is healed. Prompt by @baffled Welfare unto all Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

Over the river and through deep dark woods,  yonder the city skyline,  spread of winding roadways. Linking with RonovanWrites : River and Path Linking with yeahwrite.me weekly poetry challenge Welfare unto all Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

Winter’s wailing winds.  We wake up to dark outside.  That snuggling in quilts!!! Welfare unto all  Rab rakha 🤗 🤗 🤗 

With yesterdays gone, now and yonder's all you have, yeasayers yap. Linking with Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 

The gift of grinning, gala glimmery grandeur, the good foreboding. Linking with Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 

Deliberately she wipes the clothesline, with a dusting cloth, to remove the specks of dust that might have gathered on the thin iron wires drawn taut and tight between three angeled iron holders. But sitting in my balcony and leafing through case file, I sense her anxiety. Her daughter has been standing at the corner of road, for over 15 minutes now and that rickety yellow school bus has not picked her up yet. The girl's school bag is sagging with the weight of curriculum and shoulders, perhaps with the weight of expectations. She sneaks another look at her daughter, her hands pausing for a moment and then she returns inside, probably to attend to her laundry, only to come back in less than a minute and peep again. Her visit this time is synchronized with a screeching halt of Tata Winger. Her daughter boards the bus, just as she hangs the first cloth to dry, grey skirt from her daughter's school uniform.

The scorching sun was bidding goodbye. Laden with files, a handbag and a lunch bag, and swallowing the pain of shoebite, I made it through the subway. And then I lavishly boarded a rickshaw. The rickshaw-puller, a summer-tanned boy of 18-20 years, eagerly accepted the tour for a measely 20 bucks. His dirty sweat sodden vest and sinewy arms talked of day well-labored. He often wiped the burden of responsibilities with his red cotton stole. When I reached, I thanked him but he pretended not to hear. Silently, he turned his cab towards main road in anticipation of new customers. Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Pretend

The sidewalks littered With innocent footsteps Outrunning each other To find the best hiding place. The IT counting till hundred Occasionally peeping across And seeing the silhouettes Sliding behind the cobwebbed niches. The pretence of Making the search Calling out, Winning, loosing, Playing and replaying The childhood laughing And celebrating The festival of life, Thoroughly. The spectres of Good old days Peeping now and then Only to find The ruckus of tiddlers Silenced By shadows of youth Wandering through this labyrinth Confounded, Blinded by dimes and dollars. Fractured bodies Supplanted by Fractured souls. Life left behind In Unfrequented dusty alleys. Image by Bill Brandt, 1934 Linking with Light and Shade Challenge

Farmhands moved away, Lured by the glitz of cities, hopes of better work. Mother earth left deserted, Coffee and jobs both erased. Wild weeds aplenty, Travails lost to empty nests. The bosom, untilled, Several genus trampled. Empty percolators stare. Reminiscent farmlands abound.

Our regular Long distance call Rings With a tone of urgency. Dad and I collaborate, Telephonically, Working out solutions To some technical glitches That faze him. He, narrates the specs I, jury-rig the solutions For a 11-year old desktop That still sits proudly On my study, back home. He sounds alert, Like a sentinel on his duty, With mom’s best iced coffee Working through The complex mesh of His veins and arteries, While The woolly-headed me, Occasionally drifts off. Concerned, he asks me If I need to sleep. A nonchalant “Oh, All I need is coffee” Is what I tell him, But he chooses to listen instead To the unsaid “But somewhere in between Office and cooking And laundry, I forgot to Purchase the staples. Again”. A pause, Longer than expected, And it dawns on me, Muzzy as I am, That the parent in him Will worry at The prospects Of my sustenance and subsistence. Luckily, I have the solution By...

Rhombic paper-mache of dreams Dancing aloft in wind currents. Undulating in the infinity. Conquering the crested iris. A distant silhouette Tasting the skies, Inspiring to look Further and higher. Tangled reins Locked in trance. Behold! Their rhythm, Ceaselessly goading. The unruly stringless wanderer Scaling the silver skylines. Skilled hands mastering The string, now loose, now taut, Willing it in to a smooth glide, Urging and encouraging the flight. Wide-eyed innocence Mesmerized, Their young beating heart, Reaching for stars, Untiringly, chasing the kites. Linking with : Alphabet Salad

Slender fingers, Held my tea-cup. Purple voice Poured prophecies. Something would hit me. I kept thinking car. But Cupid's Arrow! Cagey, Christine. You didn't tell me that. Or perhaps you did. But the voice died in jangle Of bangles on your wrist.

The cans were all empty. Three hungry stomachs growling and not a grain to feed them. It had been raining for three days now. And she had not been able to make her daily rounds, exchanging utensils for old, worn out clothes and then reselling them for paltry amounts to villagers and even poor. But she was not poor. She was beggarly. She and her three kids. It had not occurred to her husband in the moments of his physical wantonness to worry about providing for them. He had planted his seeds in her life and drunk his way to an early death, leaving her alone to fight daily battles of survival. And fighting she was. With every single fiber of her being. A relentless daily fight to win over the hardships. The pitter-patter rain drops harshly reminded her of the hollowness of food cans. Rumination could wait. She would have to forage first. She picked up a torn plastic bag and wrapped it around her head before stepping out of her lean-to. She drew back the bright blue patched tarpaulin ...

From the recycled quire, Fresh, clammy, and Heady with Wood and bleach, A blank A4 sheet Posed au naturel, Shivered slightly, Restive, yet patient. Teasing caresses Of my quill, Pregnant pause, Brazen coquet, Relenting gradually. The osculations left An indelible inky-blue trail.

Not the roof above, Or hills yonder; roots nowhere; Home i take with me.

The faint fragrance drifts, Pears and coconut oil, Chiffon draped across her skin, Still moist from shower, Streak of fair waist Glistening against crimson red, Her umpteenth attempt to wake me up. I pull her in my embrace, The cooler, Buzzing somewhere.

A tiny drop, resting for a while, on your bare shoulder And then travelling down your soft and supple arm Leaving behind a moist trail And a growing rivulet of unsaid desires. Oh! The burning ache of the pleasure Allowed to that aqueous pearl. And as if I wasn't ablaze already, Another bead followed the lead Melting teasingly over the undraped cutis. One more and yet another, until they poured torrentially Enveloping you in their bedewed embrace. The sun relenting, Cedeing to the enticing invitation of The first showers of monsoon.